In the ponds of Indiana can be found the euglenoid flagellate known as Colacium. Said genus breeds by burrowing itself within the anus of the damselfly (Odonata). According to a 1972 paper published by Ruth L. Willey of the University of Illinois, the Colacium "inhabits the rectal part of the hindgut of several species of damselflies during the winter. The Colacium species enters the anus in the fall, multiplies, and forms a green mass in the lumen... The flagellates are ejected from the rectum in the spring only when the larval cuticular lining is cast off during the molt."

I have unearthed this bit of scientific trivia in the hopes of illustrating just how I suspect this week's feature by ERIC GRANDY came to be. Step 1, as far as I can tell, involves Mr. Grandy inserting his head within his own anus. Once there, he rummages around until an idea for a story—in this case, a 4,000-word treatise on a record released seven years ago—begins to take root. Step 2: The research for said story takes Mr. Grandy as far away as Anacortes, where he conducts interviews, is squired about town by his feature subject, and generally descends into gibbering and useless fandom. Step 3: Pencils said story, submits it for (light, if any) editing, and ships it off to the printer. Et voilà! (Whether Mr. Grandy's head remained lodged within his own rectum throughout this process, and remains lodged there still, is undetermined. Perusal of other pieces he penned for this same issue suggests, at the very least, a strong preference on his part for filing copy from this location.)

Elsewhere in this week's examples of writing from untenable (and highly unadvisable) positions: ELI SANDERS pauses from his usual undermining of political discourse in order to dance upon the graves of fallen daily newspaper staffers (see also graveyard, whistling past); JONAH SPANGENTHAL-LEE courts a Pulitzer with an exposé on—gasp! clench pearls!—squabbling at a downtown Seattle condominium complex; and ERICA C. BARNETT writes about parks. In other words, The Stranger's news section once again—and rather desperately at this point, I might add—courts the commercial sponsorship of Sominex. As kids in the comments sections of websites say: zzzzzzzz.

As for arts criticism this week, the less said, as usual, the better. The lone bright spot is a blissfully small theater section, the sight of which offers hope that The Stranger has realized what most everyone else in the civilized world came to grips with years ago: The theater, like my old drinking compatriot Chuck Heston, est mort. RIP.